


you deserve the best rhythm, not my hand-me-down tune

by openmouthwideeye



Series: West Eros High [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:10:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brienne faces the waltz. Her friends do their best to arm her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you deserve the best rhythm, not my hand-me-down tune

**Author's Note:**

> One of these days I'm going to make this into a proper chapter fic, I swear. I'm just lazy and it's so much work to delete and repost it all. (And, okay, I'm jealously guarding those beautiful comments everyone's left me). 
> 
> *title snagged from a song by The Avett Brothers

Sansa’s attempted makeover had been a dismal failure, but the girl was persistent. She’d made Brienne come over before school to try again.   
  
Brienne had nearly bolted when Sansa attacked her with mascara amidst the morning chaos of the Stark household. She could only pray thanks that Jon had stepped in before Sansa could decide to pierce Brie’s ears with an old earring.   
  
Now she was standing in the midst of the country club ballroom, trying not to itch her eyes. The makeup was driving Brienne crazy, and it had done nothing to improve her looks. In fact, Brienne thought she kinda looked like someone had suckerpunched her.  
  
“Ladies.”   
  
Their cotillion coach for the day was a middle-aged woman, long and lean in a dress shamelessly stolen from _The Seven Year Itch_. She clapped her hands, drawing the attention of the room.   
  
Mrs. Stark had already given the speech about how dancing was a woman’s trump card at any social gathering. _Poised_  and  _elegant_  and  _diverting_  were all words Brienne was positive would never apply to her.   
  
Unfortunately, she’d have ample time to prove it. Dance lessons were every Tuesday until April.  
  
“Please form a line on the west end of the ballroom. Our gentlemen volunteers will gather on the other side.”  
  
The girls did as bid, Brienne shuffling her feet until she could follow a cluster of debutantes and disappear somewhere in the middle. She heard girls murmuring about the guys who might show up, giggling when names like Robb Stark and Jaime Lannister were mentioned.  
  
 _Jaime’s probably watching NHL,_  Brienne figured,  _and Robb’s got basketball practice._  
  
She wished she were with them. Either one.  
  
The dance instructor clapped her hands again, and a collection of boys trudged, marched, and swaggered in through the service door. They formed a haphazard line, not quite parallel with the girls across the room.  
  
Brienne quickly assessed which boys she knew. She smiled sheepishly at Renly and Loras, and quickly skirted certain other classmates. She wasn’t sure if there was anything in it for them beyond the hope of a date (or sisterly threats, as far as Loras was concerned), but she was certain to be the last girl standing. It looked like they’d found enough guys, at least, but—   
  
Brienne’s heart skipped and quickened.   
  
Her eyes had landed on Jaime, looking bored and somewhat dour. He had clearly been pulled away from the game, but Brienne couldn’t find it in her to feel too bad about it. Even scowling, he put the other guys in the room to shame.  
  
 _Stop it,_  she ordered her traitorous pulse.  
  
It ignored her, skipping along merrily.  
  
Jaime caught her looking, and Brienne went red to her roots. He raised an eyebrow, but his jaw was firm. She couldn’t hope to know what that meant.   
  
Brienne crossed her arms tightly and looked away.  
  
The coach swept into the middle of the dance floor, pausing to make sure all eyes were on her. Brienne had just noticed Cersei Lannister standing off to one side, so she missed what the woman was saying.   
  
Even stock still the cheerleader exuded the dignity and refinement that was cotillion’s bread and butter.   
  
Cersei met Brienne’s stare as if she could sense it. The cool smirk she bestowed was unflappable, full of intent.   
  
She sauntered to the center of the dance floor, leaving an uncomfortable gnawing feeling in the pit of Brienne’s stomach.   
  
If the cotillion coach expected attention, Cersei commanded it. The older woman was explaining Cersei’s role—a tutor and a peer—but every eye was on the beautiful blonde teenager.  
  
Wanting to be her, Brienne knew.  
  
“Cersei, if you would illustrate?”  
  
Cersei smiled winningly, stepping forward. She spent half a second scanning the room before zeroing in on her stepbrother.   
  
Brienne watched as Jaime and Cersei spent several minutes exchanging more narrowed eyes and significant brows than she could follow.   
  
Cersei won, obviously.  
  
Jaime abandoned his post to meet his stepsister on the dance floor. She appraised Brienne over his shoulder as he offered her his left hand. The instructor quickly announced that they’d be demonstrating a modified foxtrot to accommodate the shortcomings of Cersei’s partner.  
  
Jaime’s cast wrapped around his stepsister’s back, and Cersei sniffed. Brienne felt a little sorry for him.  
  
The feeling didn’t last long.   
  
The music floated into the room and seemed to sweep the pair along. Brienne could only watch, agog, as they flowed across the floor. Step, sweep, twirl, dip, perfectly in time, looking for all the world like they could have inspired Fitzgerald.  
  
By the time the music stopped, Brienne kind of wanted to sink into the floor.   
  
Jaime dropped Cersei’s waist before her feet stopped moving, and Cersei plastered on a smile.  
  
The coach addressed the gathered debs, “As I demonstrate the proper steps, Cersei will oversee your efforts, offering each of you instruction as needed.”  
  
Jaime offered a practiced grin, as if he knew what was coming.   
  
“Now which of you ladies would like the opportunity to partner with this accomplished gentleman?”  
  
If Brienne thought embarrassment would keep anyone quiet, she couldn’t have been more wrong. Five girls were vying for a spot next to Jaime before Brienne could finish telling herself she  _did not_  want to dance with him.  
  
 _More’s the better.  
_  
She didn’t want the extra eyes on her anyway. And who knew what Cersei would do (with certain information she held) if Brienne were to ask Jaime for a dance.  
  
Other girls had darted across the room to claim other boys. Brienne could see annoyance on the dance instructor’s face as the groups milled around the ballroom, seeking partners.  
  
Brienne edged back, wondering if she would end up with the last guy standing, or if the cotillion coach would have to step in and arrange her a partner.  
  
“Brienne the Beauty?”  
  
The voice was incredulous, and far too pleased at the prospect of recognizing her.  
  
Her throat seized with panic, and she ground her teeth, pretending she hadn’t heard. Of course he wouldn’t take that for an answer.  
  
“Long time no see,” Kyle Hunt grinned at her.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Brienne demanded.  
  
“My civic duty,” Kyle leaned against a nearby column to watch her.   
  
Brienne set her jaw, refusing to cave to the temptation to pick apart the mascara sticking her eyelashes together.   
  
She grunted her derision at Kyle.  
  
Kyle’s eyes twinkled at her.  
  
“You mean you’re here to force your attentions on some idiot girl?”  
  
 _Like me_ , the thought bubbled up, bitter. She had bought into his shtick, hook line and sinker.  
  
“That’s no way to talk to the guy asking you to dance.”  
  
He pushed himself off the column, offering his hand with what looked like a sincere smile.  
  
Brienne knew better.  
  
“If you think I’m going to  _dance_  with you—“  
  
“You see anyone else lining up?” Kyle glanced around the room significantly. He turned an expectant look on her.  
  
Brienne stalked away. She’d dance by herself if she had to.  
  
“Don’t be like that,” Kyle implored, catching her arm.   
  
She wrenched it from him. His fingers caught on her sleeve, but she twisted away.  
  
Brienne caught sight of Loras across the room, looking peeved that Renly had partnered with Margaery. She made a beeline for him.  
  
Kyle’s echoing laughter chased her across the room.  
  
“Please dance with me,” she breathed, refusing to look over her shoulder. She could all but feel Kyle’s eyes on her.   
  
Loras, to his credit, immediately offered his arm.  
  
Loras was only a few inches shorter than her, and not quite as broad. He was sturdy enough to withstand her brand of dancing.   
  
He bore her clumsy footwork with tolerance he never would have shown on the ice.   
  
He wasn’t much of a teacher, though. It was obvious Loras knew what he was doing, and the glimpses Brienne caught of his sister and Renly made her wonder if they’d all been in dance lessons since they could walk.   
  
Apart from scuffing his shoes, Brienne couldn’t get it into her head not to lead. And no matter how well her ear picked up the beat, the rhythm wouldn’t find her hips.  
  
She kept worrying that Cersei would show up and laugh at her inept attempts. But every time she caught sight of the blonde, Cersei was patiently instructing a debutante nearby. She didn’t miss the way Cersei’s eyes kept flicking toward her, clearly content to let Brienne make a disaster of herself.  
  
Two waltzes later, Loras pulled her over to his boyfriend and shoved her at him.  
  
“You try,” he muttered, sweeping his sister away before Renly could object.  
  
“Sorry,” Brienne muttered, staring after them. She turned to Renly and shrugged, “I’m not very good.”  
  
He laughed graciously.  
  
“I remember. So do my designer loafers,” he teased.  
  
Brienne made a point not to step on Renly’s toes, but the effort cost her what little balance she had. Renly kept them to the edges of the room, which afforded Brienne the opportunity to teeter into a potted ficus.   
  
 _Bonus points for being the only girl in the history of cotillion to kill the décor while trying to waltz.  
_  
Renly pulled her back to her feet, but he could do nothing for her bruised pride. Red-faced, she determined that the least offense course of action was to shuffle her feet along the floor instead of taking actual steps.  
  
She danced with Loras again, once his legs had recovered from the battering by her knees. Then it was back to Renly, followed by two boys she didn’t know, who were evidently influenced by Renly and Loras’ example. They quickly learned their lesson and moved on to less dangerous targets. The second of the boys abandoned her in the vicinity of Jaime, who was extricating himself from the arms of an admirer.   
  
Brienne was sure Jaime only asked her to dance to fend off the girl, and not from any real desire to waltz with her. He was probably glad when Taena cut in halfway through the number, leaving Brienne to entertain herself in a corner until the next song started.  
  
It was just as well. Jaime was in enough pain without her adding bruised feet to the list.  
  
The song faded, and Brienne saw Kyle approaching from the corner of her eye. Renly swooped in and saved her, slipping a hand around her back and leading her to the dance floor as if they had prearranged it.  
  
“It seems you have an admirer,” he observed, deftly avoiding her wanton elbow.  
  
“He’s not an admirer,” she grumbled, tucking her arms and watching her feet.  
  
Renly tsked, and Brienne sighed, pulling her head up.   
  
She trampled his shoes within two beats, but Renly only winced.  
  
“He’s been trailing you all afternoon.”  
  
“He—“ she gritted her teeth, looked at the wall over Renly’s head, “He was part of that stupid bet last year, okay?”  
  
Renly sobered. His eyes shifted uneasily, and for once he let her trod on his toes.  
  
“Sorry,” Brienne mumbled automatically.  
  
“I think he’s grown fond of you,” Renly murmured, craning his neck. Brienne could only assume Kyle had found someone to dance with. “Perhaps—“  
  
“Why are we talking about Kyle?” she complained.  
  
He opened his mouth as if to comment, then shook himself.  
  
“Never mind.”   
  
His eyes took on a familiar, mischievous light.   
  
“Can we talk about Jaime instead?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“You two were getting cozy before Minion #1 stepped in.”  
  
“I tripped,” she informed him.  
  
“And he fell,” Renly sighed dramatically.  
  
“Shut up. Loras hates him.”  
  
“Yes. Too much testosterone,” he agreed amiably. “Loras wants to be team captain.”  
  
“Jaime’s better,” Brienne shrugged.  
  
“Not anymore.”  
  
That put a damper on conversation. Brienne bit her lip, wondering if he was right. Jaime was already out for scouting season. What if his career never recovered?  
  
Renly looked halfway contrite, but Brienne knew he wouldn’t take it back. Not when that meant questioning Loras’s place on the team.  
  
“Thanks for dancing with me,” she offered when the cotillion coach clapped her hands and announced the end of the session.  
  
“Anytime.”  
  
Renly squeezed her hand before stepping away.  
  
Brienne shifted her weight, wondering if it was okay to leave. Everybody else was mingling, going over footwork, laughing or flirting with friends or boyfriends.  
  
Renly had found Loras, who had been dancing with Jane Westerling across the room. The couple was smiling together, touching hands and arms and hips as they talked.  
  
Brienne rubbed a hand along her arm, looking away.  
  
She saw Margaery lock onto her, smiling brightly and dodging the crowd. Brienne was surprised that she didn’t feel overwhelmingly anxious about it. She had actually kind of missed Margaery’s input over the last few days.   
  
But something must have distracted the girl, because suddenly the throng swallowed her and Brienne was left alone.  
  
She wondered if Margaery had even been heading her way.  
  
But then Jaime was leaning against the back of a chair beside her, not quite looking at her, and Brienne forgot about Margaery.  
  
“You looked miserable over there,” Jaime said in lieu of ‘hello,’ crossing his good arm over his cast. The red plaster looked like a smear of blood.   
Brienne shuddered.  
  
“Yeah,” she conceded. “So did you.”   
  
Jaime snorted, a mutinous look flashing across his face.  
  
“My mom cut the cable.”  
  
That explained it, then. Brienne had only met her once, but she kinda figured Joanna Lannister tended to get her way.  
  
“You dance well,” she complimented lamely, as if she weren’t the fifteenth person in the room to tell him that.  
  
“You don’t,” he retorted.  
  
“I know,” she mumbled, studying her sneakers.   
  
She hadn’t needed 3 hours to drive the point home.  
  
Jaime didn’t say anything, but when she risked a glance at him the antagonism had fled from his face.  
  
“It’ll . . . get better,” he shrugged.   
  
Brienne could tell he didn’t believe it.  
  
They stood in silence. Awkward. Brienne had no clue what to say, and Jaime clearly hadn’t decided if she was worth saying anything.   
  
She wasn’t sure why he had found her to begin with.  
  
“I had my dad record the game,” she blurted.  
  
He blinked at her. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to take it as an invitation or not.  
  
“Why?”   
  
She furrowed her brow in consternation.   
  
“There’s no point if it’s not live,” he explained, as if she were slow.  
  
“You watch games from the 80’s,” she protested, too baffled to be offended.  
  
“Sure,” he shrugged.  
  
“But—you—“  
  
He crossed his arms, resting on the back of the chair so it tilted forward. He watched curiously as she struggled for words.   
  
Brienne gave up.  
  
“You’re so annoying,” she complained.  
  
Jaime laughed, looking startled.  
  
“Back at’cha, doll,” he winked.  
  
Brienne threw her hands up and sunk into a chair beside him. He grinned down at her. The height difference was throwing her off.  
  
“I need a burger,” she muttered, crossing her arms and looking away.   
  
She was not expecting Jaime to say, “I’m meeting Tyrion at King’s Landing if you wanna come.”  
  
Her head whipped around, and Jaime shrugged indifferently.  
  
“3 hours of intense physical and mental torture,” his lips twitched. “You’re basically post-gaming, right?”  
  
“Right,” she agreed faintly. “Post-gaming.”   
  
Jaime was looking at her like they were facing off in a scrimmage.   
  
Brienne swallowed hard, and hoped Jaime couldn’t hear her thrumming pulse.   
  
“Sounds great.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback, please. Constructive, critical, squeeful, or totally OT, it's all welcome here!


End file.
